


xx, secret santa

by the_most_beautiful_broom



Series: 12 Days of Ficmas 2018 [7]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Christmas Fluff, Christmas Party, F/M, Pining Bellamy, Secret Santa, because how else do you write bellarke
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-08
Updated: 2018-12-08
Packaged: 2019-09-14 00:32:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16902696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_most_beautiful_broom/pseuds/the_most_beautiful_broom
Summary: for the prompt: "i got you for secret santa so i got you this really expensive but sentimental gift that you’ve always wanted, hoping you’ll never find out it’s from me - and that i’ve been in love with you for 1234567 years"





	xx, secret santa

 “I can’t tell if Anya likes it; what do you think?”

Bellamy nearly spills eggnog on his sweater when he jumps, startled. He looks down to find Clarke by his side, her brow furrowed, practically glaring across the room. He follows her gaze across the company Christmas party to see the department’s lawyer twirling a blade around her fingers. Her face is set—it’s Anya; she really only has one expression—but her eyes are positively shining.

“I think if she liked it any more, she’d actually smile.”

Clarke laughs at that, then frowns a bit, looking at Bellamy as if she’s just noticed to whom she’s talking.

“What’d your secret Santa get you?”

Nothing.

That’s the short answer, but he doesn’t really want to tell her that, because that’ll probably mean her getting indignant. Which means Clarke switching into Find The Culprit mode, which means her figuring out his absentee secret santa, leading to an interrogation and intervention which the rest of the office would undoubtedly be amused by, and then tease him about it later.

Because the rest of the office has picked up on what Bellamy has been hiding for months now: he’s in love with Clarke Griffin.

They’d started at the social work company about the same time, brimming with strong ideas...that just happened to be opposing. Over the years, it had worked out and now they basically ran the company: Lexa kept the board happy, Anya kept the courts happy, and Bellamy and Clarke kept the kids safe. It was an efficient system.

The balance of said system is teetering now, and Bellamy knows it’s his fault. He’s the one who had to go and develop feelings for his coworker, had to go from thinking she had solid ideas to realizing she’s the highlight of his day. He’s the one who reads into every word she says to him, wondering if maybe maybe maybe it could be reciprocated; he’s the one who knows how she takes her coffee, and that she won’t respond to a text before 8am, and the 80s sitcoms she watches when she’s miserably sick.    

“How did you know she’d want a knife?” he deferred.

“Everyone wants a knife,” Clarke says, like it’s common knowledge, “but nobody wants to buy one for themselves. I just happen to be the world’s best secret santa, and got it for her.”

“Are you pushing for compliments?”

“Someone’s got to. There’s almost too much altruism going on tonight; don’t you think?”

“It’s Christmas at a Foster Care firm,” Bellamy says dryly, “Altruism and good cheer are just leaking out of us.”

Clarke wrinkles her nose like she’s not a fan of his verb choice, but she’s saved from answering when Kane comes over.

“Good evening, Clarke. Bellamy,” the man booms, and Clarke stiffens, just a little. Bellamy isn’t sure if Kane notices, but it’s not that she doesn’t like the man, it’s that it’s weird to process when the DA marries your mother. “Enjoying the party?”

Bellamy says that it’s great and Clarke lifts her reindeer mug to demonstrate that, yes indeed, fun is being had. They make small talk for a few awkward minutes, then Kane does an obvious double take.

“Oh wait,” he says, reaching into his back pocket. “Bellamy, I was supposed to give you something.”

Bellamy isn’t being demure; he truly can’t think of anything that Kane would have for him. But the man pulls an envelope out, hands it to Bellamy with raised eyebrows and walks away. Beside him, Clarke shuffles.

“If he just gave you a bonus, right in front of my salad, I’m going to be pissed.”

Bellamy laughs, but he knows it’s not a check. Technically, those would come from Kane, but someone from the company would’ve handed them out. But there is a piece of paper inside, with a typed note on it:

**Sorry I couldn’t be there tonight and give this to you in person. Check your desk whenever you get a chance. Merry Christmas. XX, Secret Santa**

After he finishes it, Bellamy tries for a second to think of an excuse to leave, but Clarke laughs a bit.

“Just go,” she says, waving a hand and already turning back to the party, “Just tell me what it is later.”

He goes.

As he gets farther away from the party, the office building gets more and more quiet, until it’s just a normal office building, but with Mariah Carey echoing faintly down the halls.

Bellamy doesn’t see anything on his desk from a distance, but when he gets closer to the cubicle, his step halts.

Because it can’t be…

His fingers trace over the faded embossed letters on the front of the book: _The Iliad_. His childhood best friend had bought it for him when his mom was diagnosed, just a book she’d found at a garage sale that she’d thought was nerdy enough for him. He’d devoured it, turned to stories of sieges and gods and treachery and tragedy. When the battles in his own life were insurmountable, he’d found solace in the worn pages of that book.

Aurora died, and he memorized the book, then read it to Octavia, to help her sleep. Then it’d stopped working, and he’d set the book back on its shelf.

A few years later, on an icy night, a drunk driver ran a red light on Gibson and Sinclair; Gina Martin was dead.

Octavia found the book, dusted it off, and brought it to Bellamy; he lost himself in the pages again.

And again, time passed.

Bellamy went to night school, got a degree, and then it was Octavia’s turn. Everything was mortgaged, overdrawn, and Bellamy was at the bank with the same book when a man in a tweed blazer stopped him. Asked, very politely, if he could check the inside of the book, since he recognized the cover of it. Bellamy had agreed, and the man’s eyes had gone very narrow. The book, he told him, was a collector’s item, one of thirty printed; would Bellamy be willing to part with it? Bellamy wasn’t. Then the man asked again, and Bellamy refused again, and then the man named a number that would pay for the last 3 credit hours that Octavia’s financial aid couldn’t cover. Bellamy took it in cash.

Now, in the faded lights of the office, the book tired beneath his fingers, Bellamy flips a couple of pages. Then he pulls his hand back and sits at his desk, the splot leather of the chair squeaking in protest. He runs his hands through his hair, staring at the book.

Not just a book, _the_ book.

He can’t accept it; it’s too much. This book was worth a small fortune back when he sold it, and it’s been a fair while since then. And it was probably a steeper price off a collector, than a desperate college kid.

And despite the carefully typed note, despite the air of nonchalance, despite the facade with Anya and the ruse with Kane, there’s only one person who knows about it _this_ book. 

Bellamy stands quickly, pushes away from the desk. He’s not sure what he’s going to say, or do, but he needs to look at Clarke. Needs to see her face when he says thank you, needs to know why she would go through all of this. For him.

The party is loud and the Christmas lights are bordering on garish, but he finds her easily. In the kitchen, across the counter from Murphy while he measures spices into a vat of cider, swiveling back and forth on a barstool. She notices Bellamy from across the room, and he watches a slew of emotions run across her face, before she remembers her gambit and her expression lifts.

Has she done that everytime she sees him?

What else has he missed?

And Bellamy is tired of waiting and wondering, tired of imagining too much or not enough, and something in him knows that Clarke is too, because she tracked down a rare book from a private collection, paid through the nose to get it, and wanted him to have it without the pomp of knowing it was from her.

“Hey!” Clarke tilts her head, unaffectedly curious, swiveling away from him. “So, what was the gi—”

Bellamy crosses the last bit of the office towards Clarke, stops the barstool on either side of her, then tastes the rest of her sentence on her lips. Clarke makes a surprised sound at the top of her mouth, but it melts into a sigh, and she leans into him. He feels her hands, light on his forearms, nervous, and Bellamy needs her closer, but settles for this. He kisses her, _thank you_ , kisses her, _you’re amazing,_ kisses her, _I love you_. And that’s when he realizes that she’s kissing him back.  

 


End file.
